


Voice of Reason

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of death of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is Lestrade’s voice of reason when cases don’t end the way that they should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voice of Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt ](http://sherlockrare.livejournal.com/814.html?thread=34606#t34606)over at the  _Sherlock_ Rare Pairs Fest. This is a slightly revised version of that fill.  
> 

London was slowly starting to wake again by the time Lestrade finally left the Yard, having first started his shift nearly twenty-four hours previous. He’d caught a nap in his office around nine the night before, not that it had helped. The horror they had all been living with for the past three weeks had burned itself into his mind, and followed him even in sleep.

He went to Baker Street, letting himself in with a key Sherlock had given him less than a year ago because it saved him the trouble of having to get the door every time Lestrade came to call, lazy bugger that he was. Didn’t want to interrupt potential experiments, he’d said.

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, was already awake and sitting at the makeshift desk by the window when Lestrade entered, clad in his dressing gown and pajamas with John’s laptop open in front of him.

“He’s gonna kill you for that, you know,” Lestrade murmured, shutting the door and leaning against it. _Christ_ , he ached. The seventeen steps just up to the flat had burned, and at the end he was dragging. He didn’t know how he was going to manage going further, but he needed water and some paracetamol and _God_ , he just needed to sleep. Sighing, he pushed himself off the door and wandered on shaking legs to the kitchen.

“His passwords are so easy to crack, it’s practically an invitation to use it.”

Lestrade came back out into the living room, glass of water in hand. He downed half of it in one go; Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him before returning to the laptop.

“Another victim,” he said. Lestrade nodded.

“Yeah. Eight-year-old boy, same as the others. We’ll be officially calling you in on it in the morning.”

“It _is_ morning,” Sherlock pointed out, and Lestrade felt a little of his resolve crack.

“Sherlock,” he said warningly. His hand tightened painfully on the glass; he couldn’t handle this right now. Sherlock’s eyes met his, for a beat longer this time.

“He’s upstairs,” he said at last, turning back to the computer. Lestrade drew a deep breath through his nose and shut his eyes briefly, relieved. He’d been afraid he’d missed John, thinking that perhaps the doctor had had an early morning shift at the surgery.

“Thank you,” he breathed, setting the glass on a nearby table and moving to the door. He paused on the threshold, and added over his shoulder, “While you won’t be _officially_ investigating until tomorrow, that doesn’t mean you can’t...get a head start.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “Was he killed in the same manner as the others?”

“Yes.”

“No differences?”

“Not a one. Does that help?”

“Immensely.” Sherlock gave him a quick nod. “I’ll begin immediately.”

Lestrade inclined his head in thanks, and all but fled up the stairs to John’s room.

John was asleep on one side of the bed, passed out on his stomach with the blankets twisted around his waist and his cotton tee riding halfway up his back. Lestrade debated undressing, and got as far as kicking his shoes off before he realized that if he attempted anything further, he was simply going to fall over. He stumbled onto the bed and sat there for a moment, leaning against the headboard, simply watching John sleep. He tugged down John’s shirt and rearranged the blankets around him; John didn’t stir.

“I love you, Johnny,” he murmured. “I don’t tell you that enough. I should.”

He sighed, loosened his tie, and finally tugged it off. “I should tell you that all the time, honestly. ‘Cause I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Lestrade twisted the tie in his hands, staring down at his lap. “We found Todd Miller today - s’never good when someone says it like that, is it? Yeah. He - uh - well, he’d been dead a while. About...forty-eight hours, they think. So while his parents were alerting police and searched teams were being amassed, he was already lying in a ditch with his throat slashed open. And - Jesus, I don’t need to be telling you this, do I? You’ve seen enough of stuff like that. I’m sorry.”

He reached out and placed a hand on John’s back; felt the man’s ribs expand and contract with each unconscious breath.

“He was so tiny, John. So little. Like Andy - you haven’t met Andy yet, though, have you? He’s my sister’s youngest. I haven’t seen him in almost two years, what with one thing and another. I’ve missed too many holidays; too many birthdays. Missed yours, didn’t I, just last week? Not that you’ve ever cared much for that, but it means something to me. I - I want to be there, John. Same way you’ve been there for me. And for Sherlock. How do you do it?”

Lestrade leaned over and pressed his lips to John’s fabric-clad shoulder. “And how did I get lucky enough to have you in my life?”

\----

John woke to Lestrade wrapped around him, still fully dressed and breathing deeply - apparently asleep. He shifted, adjusting his arm so that it was draped across his partner’s shoulders and Lestrade’s head rested comfortably on his chest. The other man stirred, and John whispered, “Morning,” into the top of his head.

“Morning,” Lestrade murmured, but his tone was wrong. John frowned, and smoothed down a patch of the unruly hair.

“They found him, didn’t they?” At Lestrade’s slow nod, he added brokenly, “I’m sorry.”

Lestrade lifted his head and pressed a light kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. “Thank you, Johnny.”

“What can I do?”

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, and John could see the fight behind his eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he looked away. John pressed a hand to the side of Lestrade’s face, wiping away the single tear with a sweep of his thumb.

“Come here,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around Lestrade’s shoulders and pressing a hand to the back of his head, pulling him back to his chest. “I love you.”

Lestrade gave a shaky laugh. “S’posed to be telling _you_ that.”

“I already know,” John whispered. “It doesn’t need to be said. You are the absolute best thing that’s ever happened to me, Greg. And I just - I’m here. I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade whispered. The word wavered dangerously, and John started rubbing circles into his back. “Yeah, I know.”

“It isn’t your fault, you know.”

“We weren’t fast enough,” Lestrade countered, lifting his head off John’s chest. He gave a bitter huff of breath. “Should’ve come to Sherlock sooner.”

“Listen to me,” John said firmly, tipping Lestrade’s head up so their eyes met. “You did _nothing wrong_.” 

“Wish I could believe that, Johnny,” Lestrade said sadly. “But there’s a little boy lying dead in the morgue tonight because we didn’t think to consult Sherlock from the first.”

“What makes you think he wasn’t already working on this?”

Lestrade’s face went slack. “What?”

“Like he was going to pass up a case like this just because you hadn’t asked him for help yet,” John said softly. He attempted to smooth down a patch of the unkempt hair again, and failed. “He’s been working on it from the start. And he’s been as baffled as everyone else.”

“Well, that’s hopeful. Jesus.” Lestrade rested his forehead against John’s chest and John carded his fingers through the silvering hair, reading his partner’s thoughts. Sherlock had been his last shred of hope, the final trick up his sleeve - and knowing that had been exhausted, Lestrade felt as though he was left with nothing.

“That boy’s death isn’t on you, Greg. Or on anyone, except for the sick bastard who killed him,” John murmured, fingers trailing to the back of Lestrade’s neck and squeezing. “Sherlock’s been on this all along, and even he couldn’t save him. I know...I know it’s hard to hear, but that boy was dead from the moment he was taken. You did the best you could with what you had. And Sherlock’s...he’s been obsessing over this one. Maybe not quite for the same reasons as you, but he’s determined. He’s not about to give up, and I _know_ you aren’t. We’ll get him yet.”

Lestrade sighed into John’s shirt. “And how many more have to die before that happens?”

John didn’t give him an answer; Lestrade wasn’t expecting one.

“Go to sleep,” John whispered. “You’re exhausted.”

He felt Lestrade swallow hard. “How can I?”

“Because there’s a whole city of children out there who need you, but you’ll be little good to them if you’re so tired you can’t even think straight.” John dropped his head until his lips were resting against Lestrade’s hair, and he added, “Because there’s an _entire city_ out there that needs you. Because there’s a mad genius downstairs who needs you.”

He dropped a kiss onto his partner’s graying head. “And because _I_ need you.”

There was a long pause, and then finally Lestrade nodded against his chest. His fingers twitched against John’s side, pressing gently into the dips between his ribs, and John understood the subconscious movement.

“I’ll stay,” John assured him. He wasn’t due at the surgery until mid-morning. “For as long as I can.”

He felt the _thank you_ more than he heard it, as Lestrade breathed it into his chest.

“Anytime, love.”

  



End file.
